


what kind of bubblegum have you been blowing lately?

by thesilverwitch



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Background Relationships, First Kiss, Karaoke, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 19:50:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4718402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverwitch/pseuds/thesilverwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a man in the laundromat.</p><p>This is a normal occurrence. Loads of people come to the laundromat. Rafa is in the laundromat right now, in just his underwear, because thirty minutes ago Neymar spilled tomato sauce on Rafa’s last clean shirt and this month has been hell, full of papers to write and exams to pass. Work has been draining all his energy, but despite that he’s still managed to go to not one, but two parties. He’d mostly been bodily dragged by his roommates, but still, he went, desperate to pretend he still had a little thing called ‘social life’. Now he’s in the laundromat, washing every single piece of clothing he owns, because this is the first time he’s had time to do it in a month and oh god, if his mom hears about this she’s going to kill him and then she’s going to worry incessantly. Rafa can’t tell her any of it, which breaks his heart because he’d only recently stopped lying to her about his living conditions.</p><p>Anyway, the point is, there is a man in the laundromat and his clothes—that he’s now stripping off his body and throwing inside one of the machines—are covered in blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what kind of bubblegum have you been blowing lately?

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the prompt — I'm in my underpants in a laundromat waiting for my clothes to get washed and I noticed when you put your clothes in the machine next to mine they were all covered in blood what the fuck — although this quickly grew into something bigger once I started writing. Hope y'all enjoy it!

His hands are warm. There are colored swirls swimming on his skin, temporary tattoos made from ballpoint ink that flow endlessly, from the tips of his fingers down the back of his hand, across his wrist and up his arm. They go as far as the sleeve of his worn out Nirvana t-shirt. Besides the swirls, there are little patterns, a mixture of squares, triangles and circles, asterisks and stars. They occupy all the free space, turn a blank canvas into a breath-taking picture. Sometimes the color bleeds, smudges and runs, adding a different emotion to the images.

Marc traces the drawings with the tip his tongue, starting on Rafa’s index finger and going from there. Rafa’s breath holds as he does it, trapped inside his heavy lungs, kept there by the strength of his ivory ribs. Marc bites the inside of Rafa’s wrist, his arm, his elbow. Rafa exhales. This is just the beginning. 

: :

There is a laundry machine in Rafinha’s new apartment. Or at least there is what, from a brief inspection, looks like a laundry machine. There are multiple potted plants located on the cover, mostly cacti, but also a hibiscus and a potato. Inside the metal tunnel, where clothing is meant to be washed, there’s a collection of old clothes growing mold.

“Oh yeah, that’s broken,” tells him Neymar, one of Rafa’s new roommates. He speaks in such an offhanded manner that, for a moment, Rafa thinks they’re talking about a simple broken toaster.

“Can we get it fixed?” Rafa asks.

Neymar turns to Dani, who is sitting on the kitchen counter eating a bag of chips that’s definitely expired, considering they stopped making that specific flavor three years ago. "Why?” Dani asks. “There’s a laundromat just down the street. It’s cheaper than calling the repairs guy.”

Rafa refrains from giving a speech on how, eventually, the cost of constantly using the laundromat will exceed the cost of fixing the laundry machine, which shouldn’t exceed fifty dollars if they divided it between the three of them, even with all the mold.

Neymar and Dani are both lovely, kind and probably too generous for their own good. They had offered Rafa a place to stay without even blinking when he told them about the state of his last apartment, in which the mold hadn’t been contained to just the laundry machine. They are not, however, the type of people who wash their clothes every week.

“Can we at least get rid of the clothes with mold? Who do these even belong to anyway?”

“Sure,” Dani says, just as Neymar’s cheeks turn an interesting shade of red.

“Those are Messi’s,” Neymar says. Rafa raises an eyebrow. The best kind of judgment is the silent kind. “I threw them in there for a prank.”

“A prank,” Rafa repeats.

“Yeah. I’ll go get a bag and some gloves,” Neymar tells him. Rafa allows himself to smile at Neymar’s retreating back. At least he doesn’t have to worry about giving anyone a health and safety speech.

The last place Rafinha had lived in had been a dump. Literally. His landlord was a hoarder and he kept all his shit in the apartment Rafa shared with two other poor bastards from uni. The place was a goddamn health hazard and Rafa spent a lot more time making sure his vaccines were up to date than any twenty-year-old should.

Now that he’s out of there, he’s on the hunt for somewhere Adriano and Vermaelen can stay. As soon as he finds it, he’ll be making some interesting calls, Mr. Van Gaal can bet on that.

When he first moved in with Neymar and Dani, he’d been a little worried about what he would find. His friends are great, but they’re also the type of people who wear pajamas to university on a regular basis and who will eat just about anything that doesn’t make them vomit. Rafa had moved in expecting to find someone had sneaked into the apartment while Dani and Neymar weren’t paying attention and set up a meth lab in the empty room they’ve now given Rafa.

So far, the worst find is the mold fest in the broken laundry machine. This is pretty inconsequential, all things considered. Rafa knows the laundromat Dani was talking about. It’s less than a minute walk, and Rafa gets a bunch of quarters as tips from his job at a restaurant downtown.

All in all, his new living arrangement is a blessing. It’s a ray of sunlight peeking through the clouds during a storm. An extension on a paper he had forgotten about. Or, more specifically, they’re a room for two hundred euros in a decent apartment just fifteen minutes from uni and twenty from his job, which, in Rafa’s perspective, is nearly the same thing as a kiss from god itself.

: :

There is a man in the laundromat.

This is a normal occurrence. Loads of people come to the laundromat. Rafa is in the laundromat right now, in just his underwear, because thirty minutes ago Neymar spilled tomato sauce all over Rafa’s last clean shirt and this month has been hell, full of papers to write and exams to pass. Work has been draining all his energy, but despite that he’s still managed to go to not one, but _two_ parties. He’d mostly been bodily dragged by his roommates, but still, he went, desperate to pretend he still had a little thing called ‘social life’. Now he’s in the laundromat, washing every single piece of clothing he owns, because this is the first time he’s had time to do it in a month and oh god, if his mom hears about this she’s going to kill him and then she’s going to worry incessantly. Rafa can’t tell her any of it, which breaks his heart because he’d only recently stopped lying to her about his living conditions.

Anyway, the point is, there is a man in the laundromat and his clothes—that he’s now stripping off his body and throwing inside one of the machines—are covered in blood. Or maybe it’s red ink. Rafa doubts it’s red ink. He’s seen ink and he’s seen blood. Those stains definitely look like blood.

There’s also blood in the man’s hair and on his skin, although it seems he’s taken a shower at some point between getting covered in blood and coming to the laundromat, since most of it looks like it’s been washed off. Rafa wonders how could one even get that much blood on their body and why didn’t the guy just throw away the clothes? There’s only so much soap can do for you, bro.

It’s a testament to how fucking tired Rafa is that he says those words out loud, only noticing he’s said them when the man covered in all the blood turns towards him.

As soon as he gets home, Rafa is going to sleep for twenty hours, and then he’s going to write Mr. Lucho a very apologetic email and ask for an extension on Rafa’s last paper for the semester because he just can’t do it right now. He can’t be awake or think for any longer. He needs sleep.

That is, of course, if Rafa makes it home alive. Crap. Where is his phone? He’s got to text Neymar and tell him he can’t have Rafa’s old PS2 and sell it for cheetos. That is going to Rafa’s brother goddammit.

“I’m sorry?” Tall Man covered in blood asks. He’s got a heavy northern european accent, kind of German, but Rafa doesn’t want to guess.

“The blood, huh, it’s going to be really hard to wash off. You’re better off throwing away the clothes and buying new ones.” If this is the way he dies, at the hands of a serial killer washing his clothes in a laundromat, it must be said: it’s a pretty fucking stupid way to die.

The guy looks down at himself and sighs. “Yeah, I know,” he says as he takes off his shirt and throws it inside the machine. Rafa spends more time looking at the guy’s pecs than he should. His survival instincts are absolute shit. “But the shirt was a gift and I was hoping to rescue it.”

“Oh, alright,” Rafa says. What else can a person say to that?

Guy covered in blood continues stripping, adding his jeans to the party. Now that he’s semi-naked and only lightly stained crimson, Rafa can notice that he’s built. Like, proper built. Like, if Rafa weren’t so fucking tired and terrified, he’d be thinking of climbing that like a pole and then he would chastise himself for it because he’s got no time for screwing around.

Only, he does, as soon as he passes out for a full day and writes his last paper.

It’s far from wise to keep talking to the possible serial killer, and if Rafa’s friends were there, they’d be hitting him on the head and calling him out on baiting death. His friends aren’t there, though, so Rafa asks, "How did that happen?”

Blue-eyed Blonde takes a second to reply. “It was a prank,” he says, smiling in a way that promises someone’s in for a world of pain. “Or at least my friends say it was a prank. I’ve yet to make my final judgment.”

“A bit of a shitty prank,” Rafa replies. Did someone get severely maimed for this prank? Mr. Gun Show doesn’t look upset, just annoyed and thoughtful, but who knows? Maybe he’s a psychopath incapable of feeling sadness.

“They thought it was very funny,” Posh Spice says, shrugging. “They spent about one hundred euros between them on pig’s blood. The video of them dumping it on me will be making its way to youtube pretty soon, I’ve been told.”

“Ouch,” Rafa says as his entire body relaxes. German GI Joe’s friends used store-bought pig’s blood to screw with him. Thank god. Rafa makes a mental reminder to never introduce any of these people to Neymar and Dani, never mind that he doesn’t even know who these people are.

"What about you? Been pranked as well?” Blondie asks. Rafa should ask him his name soon. He’s running out of appearance based nicknames.

"Nope, just haven’t had time to wash my clothes lately and my last clean t-shirt got hit with tomato sauce. I know, I know,” he adds, not giving young Arnold Schwarzenegger before he started bodybuilding a chance to voice his disgust, “I should wash my clothes more often, but I haven’t found the time. Between uni and work, I’m lucky if I even get five minutes to sleep, much less wash my clothes.”

"Hey, I get it. After this, I’m heading home to drown myself in coffee and Red Bull and finish my last two papers. What are you studying?”

Rafa blinks in surprise. That’s not the reaction he thought he would get from a Colgate model who, apart from all the blood stains, looks like an organized person who has his life in check and doesn’t get emotionally invested in late-night soap operas.

“Anthropology. You?”

“Business management.” Rafa nods. That makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is what CEO in the making does next, when he sits down on the chair next to Rafinha’s. There’s a nervous energy attached to him that seems to dissipate when Rafa smiles at him. “I’m Marc-André, by the way. Marc is also cool.”

Rafa smiles again. “I’m Rafinha, but you can just call me Rafa. Whichever you prefer.”

Marc smiles at him. "Nice drawings,” he says, pointing at Rafa’s arms. Rafa blushes and tries to hide the ink sketches covering his left arm, but it’s worthless. Marc’s already seen them, and, in any case, they’re far too many to hide. He’d just started work on his right arm when Marc had walked in.

They’re not special drawings. Really, they’re not anything at all. Some people play games on their phones when they’re bored while others read or text their friends. Rafa draws swirls, curls, circles and even people, all over his hands, arms and wherever else he can reach. He used to draw on his old girlfriend, back when they were still dating. He hasn’t drawn on anyone else since, keeps his artistic creations contained underneath sleeves whenever he can. Most of his teachers aren’t too fond of them.

Sometimes, Rafa wonders what his life would be like if he’d decided to study art instead of anthropology. If he’d followed his dreams to the full limit and spent his days covered in paint and creativity instead of blue ink and heavy books.

He would have probably failed. Tripped somewhere along the way. Crashed and burned. His parents told him to do it, that they’d support him regardless of what he chose, and Thiago didn’t speak for him for three days after Rafa told him the news, but in the end, Rafa just couldn’t do it. He’d started sleeping less and less as the day to submit his college applications came. He couldn’t draw, think or function under the weight of his anxiety and guilt.

Everyone says it’s better to try and fail than to have not tried at all, but sometimes it’s easier to settle for the moon than to aim for the stars.

“Thank you,” Rafa says, since he’s not about to confess all that to a stranger.

Marc smiles again. It’s only now, up close, that Rafa notices that besides being proper built, Marc is also gorgeous.

: :

Something in the back of Rafa's brain sparks and comes to life. It’s true. Rafa has no survival instincts.

: :

“And if I’d tried—“ Rafa stutters, having trouble pulling his thoughts together in his drunk state. “If I had tried, I would have failed.”

"Maybe, maybe not. You really can’t know unless you try, but I get why you didn’t want to do it. Being cautious isn’t a bad thing,” Marc tells him. Marc is sober while Rafa is drunk. Marc makes a lot of sense. Far too much sense, to the point where it’s unreasonable how a person who owns ten polo shirts in different shades of blue can sound so sensible.

“I was scared,” Rafa tells him.

Tonight is spilling his guts night. Actually, no. Tonight is Messi’s birthday, and Neymar is hosting the party in their apartment because Neymar is dumb and in love and that’s what dumb people in love do. Rafa had invited Marc because he’s dumb and in love too and now he’s spilling his guts to him about his fucking past because if he starts spilling his guts about the present he’s really, really going to regret it.

They’re in Rafa’s room and there’s a heavy scent of oranges in the air. Rafa isn’t sure where it comes from.

"Everyone was scared when they sent in their college applications,” Marc says.

Rafa rolls on the bed until he can face him. "Were you?”

Marc is a terrible liar. “Yes,” he says, making Rafa frown at him. “Okay, okay. I wasn’t scared about that, but I get scared about other things.”

"Like what?”

Marc shrugs. He doesn’t meet Rafa’s eyes. "Lots of things,” he says.

Rafa wants to tell him this is spill your guts night and Marc needs to get with the program, but that would be unfair, so he keeps his mouth shut and closes his eyes. He breathes through his nose the scent of oranges as cheap alcohol swims in his veins.

: :

Rafa’s parents want him home for the summer. Thiago can’t go because he’s got a summer internship with a fancy marketing company, but Rafa’s got nothing. He’d go if he could, but the tickets are ridiculously expensive and he knows that if he buys them he’ll be living on ramen noodles for the next three years.

He tells his friends about his conundrum. Whines incessantly, really. Everyone who’s around for the summer listens and commiserates with him. Dani even makes him his favorite dish, moqueca de camarão. Turns out that Dani’s questionable eating habits have nothing to do with his cooking skills and all to do with laziness and a quiet obstination against The System, capital letters. Rafa doesn’t ask. Some questions are better left unanswered.

Everyone is supportive in their own small, special ways. 

Everyone except one person.

Rafa is not quite sure what to do with himself when he opens his email one stifling hot Tuesday morning to find a plane ticket from Barcelona to São Paulo booked to his name, although he immediately knows who to blame.

“I can’t— what even— how did you—“ Rafa says, unsure of where he wants to begin. “I can’t accept this.”

Rafa can see Marc shrugging at him all the way over from Germany. “Plane leaves tomorrow, so you can’t get a refund. It will be a big waste of money if you don’t use it.”

“I can’t. This is way too much,” he says.

“Consider it an early birthday gift.”

"My birthday is in February,” Rafa tells him.

“A late birthday gift then.”

Rafa is speechless. He’s genuinely, one-hundred percent speechless. On the other end of the line, Marc sighs. “I know how much you miss them and it’s not like this is a huge strain on me.”

Rafa knew Marc was wealthy, but to have it put like that still stings.

“I’m not your charity case,” he says. The temperature in the room has dropped a few degrees and there’s a razor sharp edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. He wants to hang up the call and throw up.

“I know you aren’t. Jesus Christ, Rafa. This is just a gift. You’re my friend. I care about you and I want you to be happy. Just take it, please.”

Rafa is silent for a moment. "How did you even get my ID number?” In his head, he tracks down the location of his suitcase and begins to figure out what clothes he should take with him.

"Neymar got it for me.”

Of course he did.

“This is a lot,” Rafa says. He can picture Marc shrugging again. He’s so predictable. They both are.

“Just enjoy it.” Marc is silent for a moment. “Oh and I already bought the return ticket as well. Is September the third good for you? Classes start the week after that.”

Rafa shakes his head. Despite everything, he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. 

He says, “It’s perfect,” and then, more quietly, “Thank you.”

"Don’t mention it,” Marc replies.

_Idiot. Idiot. Idiot._ Marc repeats in his head. He has no idea if he’s referring to himself or Marc.

: :

“You know, they’re going to open painting classes at the art faculty next month. Free of charge. First come, first served. Sign-ups open on Monday,” Douglas tells him one day during one of their sociology classes.

Rafa hasn’t told him about his old passion for painting, but he must have guessed, what with Rafa walking around with drawings all over his hands and arms every day. Most of Rafa’s friends are a lot smarter than people give them credit for.

“I’ll think about it,” Rafa says, nodding at his friend.

: :

Rafa thinks about it. Thinking about it leads to checking out the class schedule on his university’s Facebook page, which leads to a conversation with the professor in charge to see what the curriculum will be like because he’s that type of guy, alright? He likes to be prepared.

Come Monday, he’s the first person in line to sign up for the classes.

: :

Marc smiles a lot when Rafa tells him the news.

If it was possible for Rafa to fall further in love with the human version of a ken doll, he does, right then and there.

: :

“I have a brilliant idea,” Neymar tells them one day at the end of December.

"No,” Dani says without lifting his eyes from the television

"Definitely not,” Rafa adds as he sketches someone who looks a lot like a certain Marc-André ter Stegen. Rafa sighs but doesn’t stop drawing. It’s not like anyone is ever going to see his sketchbook.

“I agree with whatever the others agree with, so I’ll have to say no too,” Adriano says. He has recently moved out of Health Hazard Hell and is now living with a retired couple with a passion for bingo and french kissing with open mouths. He says it’s not as bad as all that. The place is always squeaky clean and they don’t mind cooking for three instead of two as long as he helps with the dishes. He comes to their place to hang out often, though, since day-time TV leaves a lot to be desired.

Vermaelen has also moved out in the last month. He’s now living with a two Erasmus students from Eastern Europe who, no lie, drink vodka like it’s water. Rafa is a more than a little terrified of them.

He’s started making calls on Van Gaal. The police say he’ll lose the apartment if he doesn’t clean it soon, so at least there’s that.

“I haven’t even said what the idea is!” Neymar yells.

A beat passes where they all stare at him in silence.

"Well, go on then,” Dani says.

Neymar takes a deep breath. “I think we should throw a ‘90s party to celebrate the end of term.”

Rafa stops to think about it. It’s not a terrible idea. He could dress up as Ice-T. Thiago’s not too busy right now, so he’d be able to come dressed as Ice Cube and together they’d be the ice brothers. It would also be a great opportunity for the two of them to hang out. Even though they live in the same city, it’s been impossible for them to do something together because of their conflicting schedules.

"What’s the catch?” Rafa asks.

"Why do you always assume there’s a catch?” Neymar asks, sounding deeply indignant. Rafa distantly recalls Neymar telling him he used to be into acting when he was a kid.

Everyone in the room snorts. “There’s always a catch,” Adriano says.

“There’s no catch,” Neymar tells them. “It will just be a regular themed party. People will dress like they did in the 90s, we’ll figure out what kind of drinks they had back then, there will be a karaoke machine—“

Ah, there it is. There is _always_ a catch.

Rafa grins. A karaoke machine. Well, it could be fun.

: :

Marc shows up to the party with three bottles of Jägermeister and a store-bought chocolate cake, which is such a Marc thing to do that Rafa can’t even mock him for it. Neymar cheers when he sees the booze and gives out a full yell of excitement when he sees the cake. If Rafa shoots daggers at the back of his head while Neymar gives Marc a big thank you kiss, no one sees it.

No one except Rafa’s brother, who he had been engrossed in a conversation with only seconds earlier.

“So that’s your german BFF?” Thiago asks. Rafa blinks in surprise. He has been so busy lately that he didn’t even realize Thiago and Marc have yet to meet.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Rafa says, scratching the back of his neck. He’s not sure why he’s embarrassed all of the sudden. Probably something to do with the look Thiago is giving him.

"He’s good-looking,” Thiago says, quite casually, as if they’re discussing the weather.

“I guess,” Rafa replies. It’s not like he has a couple dozen drawings of Marc covering his sketchbooks, the notes he takes in classes and once, when he was distracted, his arm.

After he’s done being kissed by Neymar, Marc comes over to the two of them. He and Thiago greet each other with warm, genuine smiles. The world keeps spinning. That is that.

The party is a success, which is no surprise. All of Neymar’s parties are a success. He’s great at getting the word out to the right people and getting everyone to chip in with food and booze.

Rafa spends most of the night by the karaoke machine, singing and dancing with his friends. He doesn’t bother with drinking anything, not wanting anything to ruin his memory of Piqué’s impressive rendition of Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’ and Rakitić’s weird Croatian rap.

Around midnight, Thiago sings a duet with him, Kelly Key’s ‘Barbie girl’. It’s not a song from the ‘90s, but whatever. Fuck the haters, man. They live in a free country.

When they’re finished and have received a big row of applause from the generous audience, Thiago pulls him to the side and says, “I’ve got to go now.”

"What? You can’t leave yet, it’s still super early and it’s a Friday! Not even you can have something planned for tomorrow morning,” Rafa complains.

“Actually, I have a date tomorrow and I can’t be hungover,” Thiago says, then before Rafa can start quizzing him, “I’ll introduce you two later. By the way, I talked to Marc.”

“You did? When?” Rafa looks around. He can’t see Marc anywhere.

"Earlier while you were singing ‘You Can’t Touch This’ with Mascherano. He seems like a great guy.”

Rafa turns to stare at his brother. "Who? Masche?" 

Thiago rolls his eyes. "The German powderpuff."

"Oh." Rafa pauses. "He is. A great person, I mean,” he says, slowly, confused by the conversation and the hard stare his brother is giving him.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” his brother asks.

"No?”

Thiago’s stare continues to pierce through Rafa’s skull. Finally, after what seems like an eternity of brotherly judgment, his brother sighs and says, “For someone so smart, you’re a bit of an idiot sometimes. You should go talk to him.”

“About what?” Rafa asks, even though he can see where this conversation is heading. Without consciously deciding it, he starts planning his exit strategy. The window is a no-go since their apartment is on the third floor. Maybe he could lock himself in the bathroom? He’s four meters from the front door, Thiago could easily catch him with a smart tackle if he tried to go that way.

“You know you call me all the time when you’re drunk, right?” Rafa did know that from his call logs, but he always assumed the conversations were gibberish and that Thiago hung up after the first couple of minutes. “If that weren’t telling enough, you looked at him like the sun shines out of his ass when he entered the room earlier and then you looked like you wanted to murder Neymar when the guy gave him a kiss. You’re like the opposite of subtle, bro.”

“Are you— I mean, is this—“ Rafa can’t finish the sentence. He’s known he’s bisexual since he was a teenager, but he hasn’t told anyone in his family yet. It never made sense to do it, since he has yet to date a guy. Before Marc, he’d only had one or two meaningless crushes. Nothing like this. Nothing people would notice.

“If you ask me whether I’m cool with you being into guys, I swear I will punch you in the stomach. You’re my brother and my best friend. Nothing’s going to change that.”

Rafa blinks, hard, trying to keep it together. He’s not going to cry in the middle of a party. He so fucking isn’t. “Thank you,” he says. He shuffles his feet. “So, hum, you think I should go talk to him?”

Thiago groans loudly enough that several people turn to look at them. “Yes. You should have seen the way he looked when I gave him the ‘you hurt him and I’ll beat you up’ talk. He looked like I’d kicked his puppy or something.”

“You gave him that talk? Oh my god. Why?” Rafa stares at his brother in pure horror. He can’t even gather himself up to feel anger, although he’s sure it won’t take long for that.

“Because I thought you two had something going on! And I didn’t know when would be the next time I saw him, so I took the chance while I had it. I’m your big brother. This is what big brothers do.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Rafa groans as Thiago wraps an arm around his shoulders.  “That too, lil bro. That too.” Thiago pats him on the back, then gives him a clear shove in the direction of Rafa’s bedroom. “Just be yourself. Say something nice.”

Despite the swirl of mixed emotions going through him, Rafa would break a grin at those lines at any time. “Which one? I can’t do both.”

“Love you,” Thiago shouts.

“Love you too,” Rafa says as he pulls up his shoulders and lifts his chest.

It’s only when he enters his bedroom and sees Marc sitting on the bed that he realizes he has no clue what he’s doing.

At first glance, Marc looks the same as he always does when he glances up to see Rafa quietly close the door behind him. He’s got a regal vibe going on, like he’s detached from everything that isn’t his own success. He’s a tall person, physically and mentally. Everything about him seems to shout ‘I’m in control’. 

Except not right now. 

Right now, Marc-André looks lost.

Rafa is going to kill his brother.

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

“Yes.” Marc takes a deep breath and immediately looks more like himself as his expression changes from confused to focused. “Have you drunk any alcohol tonight?” Marc asks him out of nowhere.

Rafa blinks in surprise. “Not really. Karaoke night is always more enjoyable when you’re sober and can remember all the embarrassing performances.”

Marc nods like this makes sense, when, typically, whenever Rafa talks about anything party related, he nods just to amuse him.

“I’m going to do something now, and you can tell me off if you’d like, although I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t punch me,” Marc tells him before he gets up, walks the three steps separating the bed from the bedroom door, takes Rafa’s face in his hands and kisses him.

Later, Rafa almost wants to lie about it. He wants to say it was just a kiss. That he wasn’t taken by complete surprise. That he kissed back and didn’t make a loser out of himself. That there were no lights exploding behind his eyelids, breathless gasps and embarrassing noises. 

He does, eventually, decide to downplay the story to anyone curious enough to ask, but he doesn’t lie, not to others or to himself.

Because it’s not just a kiss, not when there are months of build-up behind it. Months of longing stares, meaningful conversations and ridiculous fucking gifts that only Marc-André ter Stegen would think to give. It’s not ‘just’ anything.

Rafa is too shocked to move at first. He registers that Marc’s lips are on his, cold and chapped but still able to apply the right amount of pressure. Usually, Marc is great taking care of himself, but when he’s stressed he forgets about everything but the next deadline. Stuff like eating, sleeping and applying stick balm in the winter go completely over his head.

For the past month or so, Rafa has been bringing him frozen meals heated in the cafeteria’s microwaves. 

Marc’s hands are cold as well. Rafa grabs them without thinking and rubs the pad of his thumbs against the sharp knuckles. He feels the gasp Marc lets out at that against his lips. It’s the best feeling ever. Rafa takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into Marc’s mouth because he wants to. Because he can. Marc lets him, no reservations or pauses. He moans when Rafa bites his bottom lip and pushes Rafa against the door behind him.

Marc is a good kisser. There is no other way to put it. He’s not so controlled as he typically is, Rafa can tell. His kisses are loose, almost sloppy, but at the same time they’re intoxicating. He sucks on Rafa’s tongue as his hands push up the fabric of their shirts. His nails scratch down Rafa’s ribs, hard, definitely hard enough to leave marks. Rafa does the same to him, breaking the kiss for a moment to look at his handiwork.

“Nice,” he says, like the coherent idiot that he is.

Marc grins at him like he’s just been told he won the lottery.

They’re not apart for long, seemingly drawn to one another like asteroids are drawn to the sun, circling ever closer to their firework end.

Rafa is drowning. He’s drowning, sinking past sea caves and rows of shells, down to the bottom of the ocean, and he knows he’s not going to come up any time soon.

They lose their shirts at some point and then they lose their pants. Rafa breaks the kiss for a second to walk towards the bed. He looks at Marc over his shoulder. He might not be the smartest pea in the pod, but he’s not blind either. He knows how he looks. He can picture this whole moment from an outsider’s perspective, with the golden hue of Rafa’s lamps—so weak he finds it hard to read a book in his bedroom, but just perfect for moments like this—bathing his skin. He knows how his face must look, with his cheeks stained pink and his eyes—

His eyes probably look as wild as Marc’s do.

Marc follows him to the bed, pushes him down slowly and then starts leaving kisses up Rafa’s right arm, the one not covered in ink. 

“I’m surprised you don’t have paint on your arms now,” he whispers, blowing hot air against Rafa’s sensitized skin and making Rafa groan.

“Oil paint can be toxic,” Rafa replies. His voice sounds strained, like someone took his throat and shook it. “I’m thinking of getting a tattoo, though,” he adds. He’s not even sure of why he says it. It’s completely irrelevant, but then Marc looks up at him with something akin to wonder, and maybe it’s not so irrelevant after all.

“What kind?”

“Haven’t decided yet. Maybe a bird. Something with movement. Something that flows,” he says.

Marc grins and moves up Rafa’s body. “And you say you aren’t an artist,” he whispers, kissing Rafa before the other man gets a chance to protest. “You should draw on me later. I would love to have a Rafael Alcântara original on my body.”

The flame in Rafa’s brain burns brighter and brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> this is kind of unrelated, but i got an idea for a fic set in this universe after posting this and since i'm too lazy to write it, i'll just share it here with you guys:
> 
> neymar is the type of guy to come home to his shared apartment with dani and rafinha with a fuckton of dogs behind me and go “bros i accidentally adopted 17 dogs” to which everyone replies “17?! how the fuck do you accidentally adopt 17 dogs?!?!”
> 
> and neymar says “well you know that pound near the hairdresser that does those funky nails that adriano’s aunt sometimes go to in the winter when the weather is shit because it’s closer to her place than the fancy one she likes more downtown?” and everyone replies “…no?”
> 
> “oh yeah, well, anyway [casually rips open a 5kg bag of kibble] the place is closing and they needed a place for the dogs or they would all have to be put down, so i decided to adopt them. it’s cool though i already found a place online that sells dog food in industrial proportions.”
> 
> but like it’s 17 dogs and obviously they can’t all live in their tiny shitty apartment with a broken laundry machine and dani’s weird album collection of german pop from the ‘80s, so neymar starts a facebook event asking people to adopt the dogs. and because he’s neymar and most people adore him, the event gathers attention at a national level without him even trying. news reports everywhere start talking about him and it’s all in the lines of “local hero adopts 17 dogs from a pound that was forced to close!! is searching for homes for the dogs!" 
> 
> and then people everyone start calling and sending donations like please!! i want to help this man and these 17 dogs!! and neymar is like "oh man i got money to adopt more dogs now” and dani is like “cool idea bro” and rafa is the only one going “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON’T.”


End file.
